


Flying

by aphelion_orion



Category: Macross Frontier
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion_orion/pseuds/aphelion_orion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's grown older, and it's getting harder to fool himself about a lot of things. Like how Michel has been intruding on the sky lately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying

He can no longer recall when his fascination with flying first began. Alto supposes there should be something to mark the beginning of it, as all grand passions have to begin with some fateful experience or encounter that transforms a person, but there is none that stands out in his memory.   
  
The urge has always been there, as far as he can think back—he has always envied the birds and the butterflies their weightless bodies, and he remembers gazing after them as they would glide past, wondering how they did it, wondering what it would take.  
  
He remembers trying to imagine what it would feel like to fly, focusing on it so hard he thought he might burst, until the harsh whack of a fan on the back of his head disrupted his thoughts, bringing reality crashing down—daydreaming during kabuki lessons meant severe punishment. Sitting up straight with a pile of books placed on top of his head, though, he thought if he had just had that extra minute of time, his feet would have left the ground on their own.  
  
Perhaps that's why he was never one with the theater, Alto thinks, somewhat ruefully… kabuki requires you to be grounded, rooted firmly to the earth in mind and body.   
  
All the balancing acts in the world couldn't make him stop thinking about it, even as his thighs began to quiver from the strain and his back felt numb from kneeling stiffly for so long, not daring to upset the books.   
  
He got smarter, of course, or so he thought back then, and the memory makes him smile with its frivolousness—if he couldn't evolve wings, he would have to make his own. He remembers hearing a fairytale about a boy who was swept away during a storm, hanging onto his umbrella and flying all across the land. Alto was waiting for it, for such a storm, standing on top of the roof of his home, clutching an old umbrella almost larger than himself. With the next gust of wind, he jumped, and for a blinding second, he did fly—until he impacted on the ground harder than ever.  
  
He is not sure what happened after that, except his arm was in plaster when he woke up and his father was furious, because what if that foolish stunt had cost his future career?  
  
Sometimes, Alto thought he might suffocate, trapped on the ground as he was every day, and every hour of the day, conscious of every step until the light and graceful turns, the slow rolling of the balls of his feet over the wooden floor, felt like the motions of an elephant, forever attached to gravity.   
  
It seems almost inevitable to him now that he would start spinning. Kabuki motions are slow and stylized, but when no one was looking, Alto would be spinning, whirling more like a dervish than an actor, and eventually fall in a moment of exhilarating dizziness, feeling weightless and airborne. It never lasted, of course, but he could easily live off that experience and imagine a fantasy where there were no floorboards under his back and no ceiling above his head, just miles and miles of sky.   
  
Back then, it didn't matter that neither the sky in his fantasy nor the sky above were truly real. They were his world and he was happy with them.  
  
Now that he has wings, all that has changed. The sky of the colony is too small and too close, encased on all sides, and out in space, there is no air, no wind, and no sunshine.   
  
Part of that, Alto supposes, might be human nature—once you get something, you always move on to want something else—but another part of it is that he's grown older, and it's getting harder to fool himself about a lot of things.  
  
Like how Michel's been intruding on the sky lately.  
  
There's no way to explain it, really, no special reason for it, either, just that it's been happening frequently—some stray thought leaping out at him like a back alley cat— _what would Michel do? what would Michel say? what would Michel think?_  
  
It's annoying, of course, distracting, but it wasn't a problem until the thoughts started sneaking into the time reserved for the sky, reserved for flying. That is bothersome, not just because it keeps him from doing a good job, but because the sky's been one of the few things he used to have to himself.   
  
Alto likes that he was able to let go when he turned his mind to the sky, to just let the ground and the gravity and all the many noisy people— _what are you doing, Princess? where are you going, Princess? want some company, Princess?_ —fade away to become a tiny insignificant speck in the back of his consciousness.  
  
Now, though, that's no longer possible, and sitting in the cockpit of the Valkyrie, zooming through the sky, is as useless as the childish spinning from so long ago.  
  
He tries it anyway, out on the grass in the brilliant sunshine, with the wind ruffling his hair and clothes, because the Valkyrie is getting maintenance and he'd really like to get away from Michel's overwhelming presence, futile as it may be.  
  
For a moment, it's perfect because the world tilts away and he's too dizzy to even feel himself hitting the ground, too dizzy to think of much of anything, just like it used to be—  
  
And then it all scatters like dust because _someone_ is laughing.  
  
"Playing children's games, Princess?"  
  
For a split second, Alto wants to throttle the smugly amused tone right out of him. Whipping around, he knows he can't control the heat rising to his cheeks, anger and shame at being discovered _playing_ , for not even having five minutes to himself before… before—  
  
"Yeesh," Michel says, making a show of feeling for his eyebrows, still grinning widely. "Almost singed them off there! That scowl's a waste of a beautiful face, Princess."   
  
"…Go away." It comes out quieter than he wanted, almost like a sullen kid would sound, and that makes him feel even more ashamed.   
  
"We need to work on your vocabulary," Michel is saying, strolling over to plop down on the ground beside him. It's at times like this that Alto wonders whether Michel is just pretending not to notice that he isn't welcome, or really _that_ oblivious. "'Get lost', 'go away'. I'm sure you could be saying much nicer things in a sweeter tone."  
  
That's another thing Alto's never sure how to receive, that endless silly poetry—what purpose does it even serve? He's heard Michel talk straight and clear, and he prefers that because it's less bewildering and doesn't end up encroaching on his thoughts late at night.   
  
When he doesn't answer, the odd gleam fades a bit from Michel's eyes. "What were you trying to do, anyway? You could bash your head open if you aren't careful."  
  
Alto bites off the automatic response— _leave me alone, you're not my mother_ —and turns away. "Gravity and I have an understanding."  
  
Michel stares at him for a few seconds before bursting into laughter again. "You say the oddest things sometimes, Princess."  
  
"I didn't ask you to understand it."   
  
It's really _I didn't expect you to understand_ , but the meaning gets across anyway, because Michel's eyes go round in that almost comical fashion that he's seen him use on girls, but which seems less than playful right now for some reason.  
  
It lasts only for a moment, though, before the smile makes its triumphant return. "Well, then… explain it to me. I want to know everything about you."  
  
"…Stop saying these weird things."  
  
"They're not weird!" Again, that wounded look, this time fake. "What's so weird about wanting to get to know someone?"  
  
There is nothing strange about that, except that Alto suspects the only reason Michel is trying so hard isn't because he's interested, but because it's a challenge. He's seen him talk that way with other people, with girls, all games and no seriousness in their interactions.  
  
Maybe, he thinks, that would be best, actually. Just explain so that Michel will get bored and wander off to find something new to occupy himself with, and then Alto can stop puzzling over his words and his eyes and his opinions.  
  
Michel is watching him again with that piercing curious stare he sometimes gets, and Alto shifts slightly, hands fisting in the grass with the acute realization that Michel's sitting too close again.   
  
"…I like the sky."   
  
It sounds banal when spelled out that way, and he expects a stupid comment, but there is none. "Here… things get loud and oppressive. I like it better up there. Even if… even if it's never enough."  
  
Still no comment, but when his eyes dart to the side, he catches Michel staring, so he quickly looks away again.  
  
"I… don't know why. It's so… so annoying to have people following me and talking to me and… and…"   
  
_Touching me_ , he wants to say, but the words feel strange in his mind and he swallows them.  
  
"Heh." Michel's grinning a bit sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
"I'm not used to that. And now, it doesn't even work properly anymore!"  
  
"What doesn't?"   
  
"Flying! I didn't have to think and I didn't have to worry, and now it's all messed up because I never get a moment's peace and you're saying weird things and then I'll have to figure them out and I never _do_."  
  
That round-eyed gaze again, and Alto realizes with a start that he's been almost yelling, for a really stupid reason, and he flushes again.  
  
Silence for a good long while, and then, "…So, the Princess thinks of me when he's spending time alone?"  
  
Alto never realized that it's possible to choke on your own breath, until he met Michel. "That isn't what I—!"  
  
"I'm so flattered."   
  
That smiling face is entirely too close, Alto decides, trying to bring some distance between them again. Nobody could possibly be that dense, could they?  
  
"Stop making fun of me."  
  
"I'm not making fun of you. I'm really, truly honored to be held in such high regard by the Princess."  
  
A glare seems equally lost on Michel. "This has _nothing_ to do with regard. You're just confusing! That's not something to be proud of!"  
  
"If I can make the Princess forget something as precious as the sky, then that's a grand accomplishment in my book. And it makes me so very happy."  
  
" _Happy_?!" Alto splutters, still trying to edge away. Should his elbows be touching the grass like that?  
  
"Yes. Because it means my endless thoughts about you… are not in vain." A smirk. "You've been keeping me from flying, too."  
  
"E-eh?" He can't open his mouth too much, because that would mean breathing the air Michel has just exhaled. He's certain his face is burning up, because Michel's nose feels cool against his, and from what Alto can still make out beyond those bewildering eyes, he doesn't seem to be at all bothered.   
  
"With the Princess's permission, I would show my gratitude now?"   
  
The words are whispered, so quiet he can almost feel them more than hear them, and he's pretty sure he should be saying something to this, because a part of him knows what's coming while the rest insists that he doesn't know at all—and then, the decision is taken right out of his hands.  
  
Alto admits he never really thought about this. It just seemed like another thing that would drag him down if he allowed it in, if he thought and wondered and _tried_ —   
  
He never expected it to be quite like this, though. Cool and soft and tingling like the wind brushing against his skin, so light it's barely there, and his mind is pleasantly empty for once, devoid of gravity and confusion because he _knows_ this feeling—  
  
It's like flying.


End file.
